


Things That Lurk (Sunlight Dancing)

by Inkonstantin



Series: Hetalia Beach Fics [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cute, Day At The Beach, Fluff, Gen, Ludwig and Feliciano's relationship is adorable?, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Painting, Philosophy, Poetic, Purple Prose, Romantic Fluff, Sweet, Swirly Fluff, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, seriously this was supposed to be humor but then it turned into swirly poetic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkonstantin/pseuds/Inkonstantin
Summary: That "I WAS SWIMMING IN THE WATER BUT THEN SOMETHING TOUCHED MY FOOT SO I RAN ALL THE WAY BACK UP THE BEACH TO YOU SCREAMING YOUR NAME AND NOW EVERYBODY THINKS I’M CRAZY BUT LIKESOMETHING TOUCHED MY FOOT" scenario.Except then it ended up being artistic, poetic and sweet.
Relationships: Germany & North Italy (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia)
Series: Hetalia Beach Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826356
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Things That Lurk (Sunlight Dancing)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this randomly over a year ago, just for fun cuz I was bored one day and browsing tumblr otp prompts. I think I actually posted this a while ago, too, but then deleted it... in any case, I'm posting it again, because I just wrote this other random Hetalia beach fic, and then I remembered that I wrote this one a while ago, and I was like, Well, if I'm posting one Hetalia beach fic, I might as well post this other one too, right? Why not. 
> 
> Back when I asked my sister what genre she would characterize this as, her answer was “swirly fluff," which I kinda liked.

**Things That Lurk (Sunlight Dancing)**

The ocean waves were nomming at the shore, white and frothy and playfully hungry, and the sand was sun-warmed against Feliciano’s bare feet as he ran along the beach— 

—ran laughing and spinning around with his arms out like a bird soaring, looking up at the blue and sunlit sky stretching far above him, illuminated as if with an almost transparent gold sheen— 

—and the presence of the ocean was nearly as vast, a darker blue scintillating all over with puddles of white-gold sunlight that cast silver reflections and defined each rippling wave with a black shadow, and it was delightful to think that if he had his easel and paints with him there would be so little actual blue used to capture it—

—the ocean that pawed so insistently and resignedly at the shore like a dog pawing at a locked door. 

Truly, the ocean made such a contrast with the sky—

—so cloudless, depthless and textureless that a photo could be taken of any part of it and turned into a paint card, utterly shadeless and utterly serene as it lay overhead with the same effortlessness as an albatross lying effortlessly, unflappingly on a breeze, seeming not to move at all as the view of a camera followed it so smoothly— 

—as they all followed with the rotation of the earth, and which Ludwig had explained so painstakingly was why they didn’t all go flying off its surface even though it turned very, very fast. 

And as Feliciano turned to look back at the sand dunes behind him, grinning—

—he really would have to come back one day with his paints, his easel, his paintbrushes, and hopefully they wouldn’t get lost in the hot, shifting sand, which looked so pale, so lightly golden-tan, but when he scooped up a handful and examined the grains closely, to paint them he would need every single color of paint in his extensive paint set—

—there was Ludwig following after him, carrying a large yellow beach umbrella, and two colorful towels of vibrant reds and oranges and pinks and greens— 

—the red and orange one was Ludwig’s towel, intense like he was, just as eye-catching and impossible to look away from, just as loud as when he yelled— 

—and the pink and green towel was Feliciano’s, which he knew to be decorated all over with patterns of fish and those Hawaiian flowers that were always found on everything beach-related, and yet the fish were all set among the flowers like koi beneath lotuses and lily-pads—

—which was not very ocean-like at all, and yet somehow the cheerful white accents to the design made is so bright and beach-like, as if with the same warm-hot sunlight and the sunscreen that was rubbed disappearingly into his skin—

—which was one of the things Ludwig had made sure of, before they left the car, and Ludwig was carrying also all the other things, the cooler with bottles of water and lemonade and the lettuce and tomato and cheese sandwiches which Feliciano had made himself—

—because they shouldn’t be eating sandwiches with meat on a beach which allowed dogs, because the dogs would be attracted to the smell and come running over with their dark wet noses and dark hungry eyes, and dogs were scary, and most of them were nearly as big as he was and could easily knock him down— 

—but he didn’t think they could knock down Ludwig, who was somehow carrying also a book and Feliciano’s flotation devices, his arm-floaties and his kickboard, because he could swim just fine but the waves were bigger than the dogs and he liked feeling safe— 

—and Ludwig made him feel safe, big and strong and dependable, and his face might have been scary sometimes, and he was scary also when he yelled and was angry, but he was really so nice— 

—and it was amazing, too, how he was carrying all that stuff, the umbrella and the towels and the cooler and the book and the flotation devices, as easily as if they didn’t weigh anything at all, and none of the bulkiness seemed to encumber him either, did he really have only two arms? 

It was probably just that his arms counted for more than two arms due to how muscular they were, since even just one of his arms would be equal to several of Feliciano’s—

—Ludwig’s biceps were larger around than Feliciano’s thighs, which was just insane— 

—and Feliciano really regretted not bringing his paints, or at least a camera—

—Kiku would have remembered to bring a camera, Feliciano should have called him to list everything he was bringing to the beach and ask if there was anything he was forgetting, he was always so forgetful, and that wasn’t the kind of thing Ludwig would have remembered— 

—“Why bring a camera?” Ludwig would have frowned, if Feliciano had remembered and asked, because Ludwig was very practical, and would point out that a camera could get damaged by the sand—

—though Ludwig had brought a book to read, and that could get damaged by the sand too, but maybe it was a book Ludwig didn’t care for too much— 

—and also Feliciano was a painter, and Ludwig knew for a fact that he had an amazing memory for details, so why bother with a camera when he could simply paint it all later? The paintings would be more accurate than the photos, anyway, the camera always got all the lighting wrong and messed up the mood of the place—

—and Ludwig really was very practical, he’d be completely correct to say that about the camera, and so Feliciano would have to follow the advice Ludwig would give if he’d brought it up and paint the beach later, just as he’d experienced it.

And one of those things he painted would have to be Ludwig, because the insistent breeze was mussing up his severe gelled hairstyle, casting blond wisps to play around his face, and it made Feliciano’s heart flutter a bit and his smile brighten. 

He ran over, the sand hot beneath his feet— 

—could he get burned from walking on the sand? Having the soles of his feet burn sounded terribly painful, he’d have to get into the cool water as soon as possible—

—and he tugged at Ludwig’s arm, bouncing from excitement—

—the waves look so cool and playful and inviting! Like fuzzy bunny rabbits—

—and because he didn’t want his feet to burn, he begged for his flotation devices, and Ludwig impressively juggled the items in his arms to hand them to him, and Feliciano thanked him and ran towards the waves, laughing when they splashed refreshingly cool against his feet, his ankles—

—and he wasted no time in diving in, letting out another peal of delighted laughter as the coolness and wetness broke over his entire body, sticking his hair to his face, rivulets of ocean water accidentally getting into his mouth, tasting of summer and sea-salt. 

Ludwig watched him from the shore, smiling softly. 

He set down the cooler, lay down the towels, placed the umbrella into the sand and opened up its shade-giving eaves. 

He didn’t care much for playing in the ocean, but he was happy to watch Feliciano do so, and he did find the beach calming. The gentle roar of the waves, the cries of the gulls, the talking and laughter of all the beach-goers. 

Children ran amid the dregs of the waves, playing tag with the water as it roared forth, crashed against the sand, then receded. Dogs ran hither and thither across the sand, chasing tennis balls and each other. There were some surfers out on the water, some sun-tanners reclining on their towels. 

It was busy and noisy to be sure, but Ludwig had their stuff far back enough on the beach so as to not be in the thick of it. The distance, while too meager to separate him completely from it, was enough to dull all the sounds into an indistinct and not unpleasant white noise. 

Ludwig sat on his beach towel beneath the shade of the umbrella and opened up his book. A paperback sci-fi novel; pure entertainment. 

He was on holiday, after all. He couldn’t think of a better way to spend this day than at the beach with Feliciano. 

Feliciano. It warmed something in Ludiwg’s chest to see him happy. 

He looked up from the text of his book every now and then, when he heard Feliciano’s joyful laughter, and smiled at the sight of him swimming amid the waves with his kickboard and ridiculous colorful flotation devices around his arms. 

Yes, this was relaxing. 

Sometimes Feliciano ran up the beach to him, holding in his hands different seashells and sanddollars he’d found, chattering happily as he showed them to Ludwig as if they were each something terribly unique and special. 

Ludwig watched Feliciano with warm eyes and smiled at his joy over the shells and sanddollars. They weren’t things Ludwig would normally even look twice at. But somehow in Feliciano’s hands, lit up with Feliciano’s smile, they seemed just as unique and special as he Feliciano made them out to be. So Ludwig smiled and nodded, murmured that they were _sehr schön,_.

Once Feliciano had showed them all, he would lay them down on his own towel and then go running back into the waves, smiling gleefully all the time. 

Ludwig stared warmly after him for a moment, then back to his book about space travel and hypothetical technology: interesting and even intriguing ideas, but not enough that it would matter if the novel got sand in the cracks between its pages. 

And it was one of the great things about Feliciano, Ludwig thought, that it was okay for him to sit on the shore beneath the umbrella reading a book while Feliciano splashed in the waves. Feliciano was content simply to be at the beach with him, to have him there to carry things and to show shells to, and Ludwig was more than content to be that to him. 

—And it was one of the great things about Ludwig, Feliciano thought, that he was willing to come to the beach with him even though he didn’t really like beaches, and that he was content to sit there with his book and admire the seashells Feliciano found— 

—Feliciano’s older brother Luciano might have allowed himself to be dragged to the beach, but he would have been terribly grumpy and complaining the entire time— 

—and it was always nice to have Ludwig around anywhere, because the world was as full of scary things as it was full of beautiful things, and Ludwig made him feel less scared, and with Ludwig there it was easier to see how pretty everything was, easier to find inspiration for his paintings—

—his paintings had gotten so much better since he’d met Ludwig!— 

—and so he felt safe to swim in the waves, and could only laugh as they buffeted him about between them like they were playing catch and he was the ball, because he knew that should anything happen—

—well, for one, he had his kickboard and his floaties, so he wouldn’t sink—

—Ludwig wouldn’t let him drown, or be carried out to sea, and so Feliciano was safe to experience the waves crashing about him and shoving him lightly about— 

—it was like being in a bumper car! Only less painful, because he wasn’t actually being thrown or jarred against anything, so maybe it really was more like being in a boat than a car— 

—and to admire the shifting colors of those waves, deep blues and blacks and greens and teals and dark seafoams and white seafoams, the watery textures and the frothy bubbles, and to think how he would paint them— 

—the sunlight glancing off the dark water’s rippling surface, dancing, and the way the beach-goers looked in their colorful bathing suits against the pale tan of the sand bereft of its little rainbows— 

—he could paint all this, capture it on a canvas and show it to Ludwig, like the shells—

—but the water was so soft and cool against his skin, almost silky but with a certain wild and salty coarseness, and the taste of the salt in his mouth, those weren’t things he could capture with paints— 

—those weren’t things he would be able to capture and show Ludwig, Ludwig clashing so terribly against his red and orange towel in his black shorts and green t-shirt—

—and green was really not his color, it did nothing to bring out his eyes and it made him look so military-ish and severe—

—and just as Feliciano was thinking all this, he felt something touch his foot. 

It was a cold touch, a slimy touch, like an octopus or a kracken or one of those mermaids that drowned people or some other terrible thing—

—and Feliciano really, really, really did not want to die— 

—not when there were so many things in life to experience and to paint, and not when he had _Ludwig_ —

—and so even as the shriek was still in his throat he was swimming towards the beach, swimming faster than he thought he’d ever swum in his life— 

—and wouldn’t Ludwig be proud of him, when he saw him swimming so fast, saw him running so fast across the beach, when usually Ludwig yelled at him because he was so slow— 

—and he didn’t want to die! He didn’t want to die! “LUDWIG! LUDWIG! LUDWIG!” 

—and there Ludwig was, looking up from his book, alarm all over his face, and it would be so terrible to die and have that face be so alarmed and then so horrified and then so sad—

—and Ludwig was getting to his feet, ready to help him, and Feliciano was about to start crying, the feeling hot and wet in his eyes, because—

_“Ludwig! Something touched my foot! I think it wanted to kill me!”_

—and heads were all turning his way, and he was sure they thought he was crazy, but he didn’t care, they could think whatever they wanted—

—there was _something_ out there and it had _touched_ his foot and he _didn’t want to die_ — 

Ludwig had looked up in alarm to hear Feliciano’s cries and stood hastily, seen Feliciano running towards him and crying about there being something in the water and not wanting to die. 

Ludwig relaxed, opened his arms to catch the sobbing Italian, smiling softly as Feliciano buried his face in his chest and soaked his shirt with tears. Ludwig held him, murmuring reassurances, brushing a hand comfortingly through that auburn hair, attempted to brush that absurd curl behind Feliciano’s ear, but it popped right up again just like it always did. 

Ludwig couldn’t help but smile, even as Feliciano cried, trembling in terror. 

These odd fits of Feliciano’s had vexed him, once. This absurd fear about dying, and more often than not from the smallest and most insignificant things. 

_How much of an incompetent weakling can this person possibly be?_ Ludwig had thought once, before he’d realized that it was not weakness. It wasn’t weakness at all. 

It was a strength, this aspect of Feliciano. A beautiful, awe-inspiring strength, that he could live so constantly, completely aware of life’s fragility and transience. 

It was so easy to forget, sometimes. How beautiful life was. So easy to get caught up in all the business of life, the tasks that needed to get done, the banalities and frustrations of everything. So easy to get so caught up in existing that one forgot to live. 

Feliciano, though. Feliciano never forgot. With Feliciano, it was easy to remember. Easy to look around and see. 

Just how beautiful life was.

How beautiful life was, and how amazing it was to be alive. 

It was Feliciano who had taught him how to not just exist, but to live.

Feliciano was still teaching him, and every time he came to Ludwig crying, terrified of death, Ludwig only loved him more, and felt grateful. 

The cold emptiness of Death lurking in the unknowable future made the present moment all the warmer, all the brighter. 

How wondrous it was, to live in a world where he could hold this beautiful man in his arms, like the limbs of a tree would hold a singing bird. 

— _“I don’t want to die!”_ Feliciano cried, and the tears were running down his face now as he threw himself into Ludwig’s embrace, Ludwig who had seen him running for his life and opened his arms—

— _“I don’t want to die! Ludwig, Ludwig! I don’t want to die!”_ —

—large, strong arms, hard and sinewy with muscle, Feliciano poked them in wonder sometimes, they were like rocks, like they were carved of marble, like Ludwig was one of those great Greek statutes, only animated and warm and alive— 

—“It’s okay. You’re not going to die—”

—so strong, they could break him like a twig he was sure, but they were so gentle, so careful as they held him, so warm, so strong and stable and safe and whatever was out there in the water would never, could never kill him— 

“— _na ja_ , you will eventually, of course. But not from this.”

A laugh bubbled up through Feliciano’s tears, burst in his chest like fireworks lighting up a dark night, and the relieved sobs that followed drifted through him like the smoke ghosts the colorful liquid fire left behind, because that was so _Ludwig_ — 

“Your German sense of humor isn’t _funny_ —” Feliciano whined, feeling more than hearing Ludwig’s gentle chuckles, vibrating warmly through his chest— 

—and then Feliciano was laughing, too, even as he insisted again, “It’s not _funny_ —” because his ear was pressed against Ludwig’s warm chest and the vibrations of Ludwig’s laughter _tickled_ — 

—and when Feliciano pulled back to look up at Ludwig’s face, fully intending to be indignant and reproachful—

— _it really wasn’t funny_ , he’d almost _died_ —

—Ludwig was looking down at him with such a tender smile— 

—like those bright yellow daffodils that lifted their heads, their sunshine manes and guileless faces, with the bravery of little lions, the first flowers to smile in the face of the retreating winter, brave and bold and warm with the assurance that nothing could touch them—

—and those warm blue eyes—

—dancing with light like sunshine playing on the bottom of a pool, playful and innocent like kittens with a ball of yarn, trying to bat it around and accidentally getting tangled up in it, twisting and squirming to extricate themselves only to leap back into the benign fray just as soon as they’d been freed, clawing and biting without sharpness or malice, drawing the yarn all around them like young girls with pretty ribbons— 

—and Feliciano couldn’t help but smile up at him, too, feeling flooded with so much joy and warmth—

—it was practically brimming in him, as if he were a fountain, and there was so much of it he was sure it was going to spill from him, bright and brilliant and light and warm and weightless, adorning him like feather boas of sunlight— 

A warm thumb stuttered his thoughts as it brushed over his cheek, gentle like the wing of a bird, and he met curious blue eyes with curiosity of his own. 

“What are you thinking about?” Ludwig asked, voice a mellifluous baritone— 

—really, his voice was like the taste of honey— 

—well, except for when he spoke in German, German was a terrifying language, rough like a cat’s tongue— 

—English was okay, he supposed, rounded and melty like candle-wax but sometimes those drips hardened into such grotesque shapes, and really, why couldn’t the whole world speak Italian, which danced like sunlight at the bottom of pools, like the warmth in Ludwig’s eyes?—

—“You,” Feliciano answered, and he smiled wider at the gentle foxglove-pink rose in Ludwig’s cheeks like a sunrise warming a pale sky, “and also that I really, really don’t want to die.” 

So many sunrises still to see, to experience, to paint! And Ludwig—Feliciano wanted to paint the way Ludwig looked right now, with that soft expression on his face, that foxglove-pink in his cheeks, the way the ocean breeze had tussled his blond hair, wisps of it drifting around his face, lit up by the sunlight like a halo. 

Feliciano could only blink and stare, trying to memorize it all, so he could capture it on canvas, later, thinking just what colors he would use, what paintbrushes, what kinds of paint-strokes—

Ludwig raised a hand to brush strays strands of auburn hair out of his eyes, still with that soft look on his face—

—and Ludwig had never actually reassured him that he _wasn’t_ going to die, or told him that now he was safe and sound, or that he wouldn’t let anything hurt him, or anything romantic like that, and yet somehow— 

—somehow it was more comforting this way, embraced in Ludwig’s warm, solid arms as if by Life itself.


End file.
